


Who Has Wandered Wide, and Far Has Fared on the Way

by Minutia_R



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Dreamworld Shenanigans, Friendship, Gen, Gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/pseuds/Minutia_R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reynir's prayers for guidance are answered--which may not be a good thing.  Luckily, Emil and Lalli are there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Has Wandered Wide, and Far Has Fared on the Way

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kiraly and aprilcampr for their encouragement while I was writing this!
> 
> The departure point for this story is probably around page 533? Before the traveling montage.

“Sigrun’s letting me come along!” says Tuuri. “I’ll finally get to take some photographs, and maybe we’ll find more records like you found at the first place, and--eeeeee! Thank you, Lalli!”

It’s nice to have his efforts appreciated--book-houses are bad enough, Lalli really didn't like going into the corpse-house--but he backs up a few steps anyway. When Tuuri gets like this she sometimes hugs. Sometimes that's okay. Not now, especially since he’s still a little mad at her.

She knows better than to ask why he’s mad. She knows he can’t answer. That didn’t stop her a couple of days ago, after Lalli had given his morning report and just wanted to go to bed.

“So, um,” she said, the way that means trouble. But Lalli wasn’t expecting that kind of trouble. He thought maybe Sigrun was going to want him to come along on a raid instead of letting him sleep, or that there was something wrong with the campsite. Instead, Tuuri said, “Emil thinks you might be mad at him? And he wanted me to ask if he did something wrong?”

So Tuuri was asking because Emil wanted her to, and it didn’t matter what Lalli wanted. He might have said that, if the words didn’t lodge in his throat like a stone.

She kept fiddling with her maps nervously for a minute, not saying anything, waiting for him to say something. Probably he should have. But he didn’t.

“Buuuuut, I’m sure he’s being silly and it’s nothing,” Tuuri finally said, which made Lalli even madder, even though she’d stopped pestering him, which she shouldn’t have started in the first place. Because Emil wasn’t being silly and it wasn’t nothing, and it’s not funny to say it was. Lalli doesn’t throw soup at people for nothing. And it’s not like Tuuri to let something like that go.

But maybe--the thought only now occurs to Lalli--maybe Tuuri doesn’t know that he threw soup at Emil.

Maybes would be easier if they held still like the forks in a path or the words in a spell. Instead, they’re slippery, like fish. Maybe Tuuri doesn’t know. Because she wasn’t there, was she? And maybe Emil didn’t tell her. Because maybe--

Too slippery. Lalli loses his grasp on the chain of maybes. Well, it’s not like it was important.

Today, Tuuri is going and Lalli is staying. So Lalli can sleep. Good.

The door of the tank is standing open, and on the way back to the sleeping compartment, Lalli can see the weird foreign mage--Reynir--outside, communing with his gods. Reynir doesn’t know his own gods, Onni said, trying to explain why he was so useless in the magic department. Lalli knew that Reynir was rude, but that’s a level of rudeness he can’t even imagine. If Lalli was that rude to people, Tuuri would smack him upside the head for sure.

Maybe Reynir’s gods are going to smack him upside the head. The way he’s going on, it looks like he’s worried about the possibility too. It’s enough to make Lalli almost sorry for him. He knows what it’s like when everyone expects you to know what’s going on and you really don’t. But it’s not like there’s anything Lalli can do for him even if he wanted to. The important thing is that Reynir is awake, so he probably won’t be barging into Lalli’s dreams today.

Emil is in the sleeping compartment, getting dressed, and Lalli turns away so he won’t have to look at him. This is why Lalli is mad:

Because he can’t understand a word anyone says, except Tuuri sometimes. Emil knows this. So why does he have to keep talking to Lalli and rub it in?

Because it shouldn’t matter whether or not Emil likes him, but it does. Lalli wants Emil to smile at him. It’s beyond annoying.

Because he always does smile. Even now, this is how Emil’s face goes when he sees Lalli: bright, and then dark.

And when it goes dark, Lalli knows that Emil is remembering that Lalli is mad at him, and he remembers it too, feels it in his gut again, sharp and hot. And part of the heat is shame, because he knows he shouldn’t have thrown soup then and he shouldn’t be avoiding Emil now. But he doesn’t know how to fix it.

So how is he supposed to explain any of that to Tuuri?

He grabs his blanket instead and rolls under Tuuri’s bunk. “God natt,” says Emil softly, somewhere above him.

Those words, he recognizes. He could say them back, but he’d probably get them wrong, and Emil isn’t going to sleep anyway, so it would be weird, wouldn’t it? And anyway, Emil is gone.

Onni is going to be mad about Tuuri going to the corpse-house. Serve her right. She thinks she can do Lalli’s job, she can do the getting-yelled-at-by-Onni part of it too.

Of course, Onni is mostly going to be mad at Lalli. Somehow he’s gotten the idea that Lalli should be protecting Tuuri, because she’s blind and helpless. Like anyone can protect Tuuri. Onni really should have figured that out by now. But it doesn’t matter, because Onni isn’t going to get the chance to yell at Lalli today. Lalli is going to stay put in his own dream, just like Onni told him to, where nothing can get at him.

Really, somebody ought to appreciate how good Lalli’s being.

#

Normally, Emil wouldn’t mind being uninvited from a building full of dead people. But he’s supposed to be Sigrun’s right-hand warrior. How can she go on a raid to a potentially dangerous location with no one but Mikkel and Tuuri--Tuuri!--for backup?

“She’s the skald, buddy,” says Sigrun. “Time for her to start earning her keep.”

Tuuri doesn’t seem to mind the implied slight to her contributions to the mission until now. She’s too excited, eyes bright above her breath mask, double-checking and packing up all her recording equipment.

“And frankly,” Sigrun goes on, narrowing her eyes in Mikkel’s direction, “I want to keep that lummox where I can see him.”

Both fair points. But. “Why can’t I come too?” says Emil. He’s not whining. He’s calmly suggesting that Sigrun reconsider her decision in the light of his reasonable arguments. “If you run into trouble they’re not going to be much help.”

“Eh. They’re not warriors, but they do okay. The scout thought it was clear, anyway. No weird spirits this time. And I need someone to keep an eye on the civilian. No non-immune people out in the field without a guard, that’s protocol.”

“Lalli’s here,” Emil points out. He’s asleep, but he’s here. It’s not like Sigrun cares that much about protocol usually anyway.

“Yeah, because that worked super well last time. Look. Just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid like, gods know, try to drive away or something. Right now troll-bait over there is at the top of my list of potential mutineers.”

“Not that I wish to reclaim my place,” says Mikkel. “But I feel I should point out that Reynir cannot technically be a mutineer, since he is not actually under your command.”

“Well, you are under my command, and I’m telling you you better not be pointing that out to him. Anyway, you’re the one who didn’t like ‘prisoner,’” Sigrun says. Then she turns back to Emil. “Cheer up, tiny viking. You won’t be missing much. You’ve seen one dead guy, you’ve seen them all, right? And hey! If anything attacks camp, you’re the last line of defense!”

That’s not actually a cheerful thought, but Emil’s not sure he should admit that.

Mikkel is explaining the situation to Reynir in Icelandic--Emil assumes--and Reynir doesn’t like it any better than Emil does. Emil thought they’d gotten over the whole mortal enemies thing. He was even beginning to consider the possibility that they’d never been mortal enemies in the first place. But maybe Reynir has just been biding his time. Or maybe he understood Emil’s remarks about his hair better than Emil thought.

It’s not that Emil has any objections to spending the day in the company of someone who doesn’t speak the same language as him, under the right set of circumstances. The right set of circumstances being when he’s not being left behind to babysit that person while the rest of the crew ventures into possibly-mortal peril. And also when that person is Lalli. Although the way Lalli has been acting lately--Emil doesn’t know what he did to make him so mad, and if Lalli’s going to be such a jerk about it, he’s not sure he cares, either.

Anyway, Lalli only fell asleep half an hour ago, and he probably won’t be up until the rest of them are back. Lucky.

Well, this is the job Sigrun has given him, and Emil’s just going to have to make the best of it. All he has to do is make sure that the tank’s still here, and that nothing is on fire and no one’s been eaten by trolls, by the time she gets back. How hard can it be?

He watches the others walk out of camp down the path Lalli scouted out earlier, Tuuri practically skipping to keep up with Sigrun and Mikkel. Then he turns back to Reynir, who’s wrestling with the laundry tub. He probably isn’t going to hurt himself too badly with that, and it’s not a bad idea, to try to get some necessary chores done while they’ve got the day free. He goes into the tank to get his flamethrower, meaning clean it and check the fuel tank and make sure it’s all in working order. He sits down on the steps, but he’s barely gotten started when the sky suddenly darkens. He hears a piercing squawk, and looks up to see a humungous black bird diving out of the sky, headed straight for Reynir.

“Oh, really?” Emil says. “Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” He raises the flamethrower, which is conveniently at hand, but when he pulls the trigger nothing happens, and in the half-second that it takes him to remember that he’s just disconnected the fuel line, the bird is already too close to Reynir to risk shooting it with anything anyway. Reynir isn’t even running. He’s frozen still with shock, his face tilted up towards the bird, and the only thing Emil can think of to do before those talons take his face off is to tackle Reynir out of its way.

They end up rolling over and over across the bumpy ground, the bird still in its dive, giving an unearthly shriek. Its wings flare wide, blocking out every other sight, and Emil’s world goes black.

“Sorry,” Reynir says, scrambling off of him. “Sorry, sorry, oh gods, are you all right, I didn’t mean to--”

Emil rubs his head, which hurts. So does his right shoulder, and his left knee. “I’m the one who tackled you,” he says. “Although you’re the one who doesn’t have enough sense to get out of the way of a giant bird when it’s diving at you, so I guess you should be apologizing. And since when do you speak Swedish?”

“Um, I’m not?” says Reynir. “You’re speaking Icelandic. I guess that makes sense, since we must be in the gods’ realm, and Icelandic is the gods’ language.”

“The gods’ realm. Sure.” Emil buries his face in his hands. “Sigrun’s gonna kill me. I was supposed to be looking after you, and now I’ve gotten a knock on the head and I’m having a stupid hallucination while you’re having your eyeballs pecked out, or being savaged by a troll or something, you’re probably going to become a troll by the time everyone gets back, and Sigrun is never going to trust me with anything important again because I’ll be dead …”

“... Or maybe you’re still speaking Swedish,” says Reynir. “Because I didn’t understand any of that.”

Emil lifts his head to give Reynir a poisonous glare, but he can’t keep it up. What he sees is too unsettling. Or rather, what he doesn’t see. He can see himself clearly enough, rumpled and dirty but whole, and he can make out something of the ground he’s sitting on, a vague impression of rocks and green. Reynir’s worried, earnest face is a bit blurry, and everything beyond that is a featureless gray mist. If Emil has to be having a hallucination, why can’t it be a fun one and not a weird, creepy one?

“Anyway, I really am sorry. The raven was sent to me--I think it must be one of Odinn’s, he’s always got two in the icons?--but I don’t think you were supposed to come along, it just sort of happened. And I--” Reynir looks over his shoulder, alarmed, and starts hurrying off, disappearing as he does. Emil scrambles to his feet and runs after him to keep him in sight, even though he can’t see where he’s going. “--I can’t lose it. I’ve got to follow.”

“What raven?” Emil says. The big black bird that was attacking Reynir is long gone.

“That one?” says Reynir, pointing. “What other ravens do you see?”

“I can’t see _anything!_ Including you if you don’t slow down, so--” Emil puts a foot wrong, and stumbles, the ground suddenly giving way beneath him. Reynir’s face when he turns around is pure panic. He grabs Emil under the armpits and hauls, and for just a second he’s backlit by some sort of glowing symbol. Then he sets Emil on his feet and starts patting him down like something much worse has just happened than Emil tripping.

“Gods, don’t do that! That was terrifying!”

“What was terrifying?” Emil snaps. Having to ask is getting really old really fast.

“You really … can’t see anything,” says Reynir. “Can’t you feel anything?”

“It was a little cold?” Emil has to think about it. “And wet, maybe.”

“Oh.” Reynir nibbles his bottom lip, thinking. “I guess … because you’re not a mage … you’re completely defenseless against everything here. That must be awful.”

This time Emil manages the poisonous glare. “Was that sarcasm?”

“What? No! Why would you think … oh. Um, no. Sorr--I mean, I was trying for, um. Sympathy. And wait up a minute, okay? Can’t you see he’s having trouble?” The last couple of sentences are said with a frown directed somewhere above Reynir’s head, maybe at the raven. Then he looks back at Emil and sighs. “Just … try to put your feet exactly where I put mine.”

“Right,” says Emil, reaching up to straighten his hair, because at least that’s something he has some control over. Reynir seems satisfied with that, and turns around to follow his invisible raven again. He’s going a little slower, maybe. It’s still not easy. “This is the worst hallucination ever,” Emil adds under his breath, but it doesn’t comfort him much. Whatever’s going on, it feels too real.

#

Between keeping one eye on the raven overhead, and another one on Emil behind him, Reynir almost walks straight through the barrier without noticing it’s there, just like before. He stops in time, although it’s a short enough stop that Emil crashes into his back and Reynir has to put out a hand to steady him.

“Isn’t there another way around?” Reynir calls up to the raven. “We can’t go in there, he’ll be really mad!”

“Who will?” says Emil.

“Lalli,” says Reynir nervously. He doesn’t want to get punched by a tree again, but the raven is still circling, and it’s starting to look impatient. “It’s his space, and he doesn’t like it when people come in.”

“Oh.” Emil looks a little wistful.

“So anyway,” says Reynir, clasping his hands together, “Mr. Raven, Huginn or Muninn or whatever your name is, if you could just--”

It’s too late. There’s a long, thin shape coming towards them through the trees and marsh; Lalli’s already heard them, and he’s not happy. Reynir opens his hands in front of him and yelps, “I’m still outside!”

“You’re supposed to be awake,” says Lalli. He jerks his head towards Emil. “And how--why did you bring _him?_ ”

Emil’s face crumples. “Lalli, if you have a problem with me I wish you’d just--”

“My problem is that you’re not supposed to be here and you could get hurt!” Lalli bursts out.

“Yeah? Is that why you threw soup at me?”

“No! I--” Reynir’s never seen Lalli look less than certain of himself before, but he does now, for just a second, before he turns his back sharply. “I’m sorry. About that. Come in.”

The barrier dissolves, and the raven flies through. Reynir dashes after it, and Emil follows him, stepping where he steps. “Thank you!” says Reynir. For Lalli, this is friendly. Reynir still tries not to walk too close to any of the trees. There’s no point in asking for trouble.

In the heart of Lalli’s space, there’s a tiny pond with a raft floating in it. Lalli jumps onto the raft and sits down, and Reynir expects the raven to lead him onward, but instead it lands on a branch overhead. So Reynir stops too, settling himself by the edge of the pond. “You can sit down,” he tells Emil, who’s hovering uncertainly. “It’s safe here, I think.”

“You just walked in,” Lalli reminds him. “Safer than most places, still.”

“Right. So.” Reynir drags his fingers through his fringe, trying to think how to explain what’s going on when he barely understands it himself. “I _was_ awake, but then the raven showed up, I think it’s one of Odinn’s, and I had to follow it, but then Emil, um. He ended up coming along somehow. It was an accident.”

“You were being attacked by a great big bird and you were just standing there!” says Emil. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Sorry,” says Reynir.

Lalli looks up at the raven. Reynir was a little worried that he wouldn’t be able to see it either,but he does; he tilts his head at it and it tilts its head back, gravely. Reynir didn’t even think of trying that. Lalli’s so good at this, and Reynir doesn’t know anything.

“Anyway, then the raven led me here, and I thought it was just a shortcut to wherever it wanted to take me, but it stopped when you stopped, so maybe … maybe it wants you to come too. Maybe Emil being here isn’t an accident either. Maybe I’m supposed to have companions on this … journey … thing. Sorry. I know you guys didn’t ask for this.”

“You did,” says Lalli.

“Yes.” Reynir winces and looks away, because Lalli’s right. It’s his fault. “I’ve been asking the gods for guidance. I didn’t think this would happen. I just wanted to be able to help.”

“They’re not my gods,” says Lalli.

“I know. Onni said the same thing. It’s okay. I’ll just …” Actually, Reynir doesn’t know what he’s going to do now.

“But I can come.” Lalli jumps off his raft and crouches next to Emil, winding his arms around his knees. He glances at Emil quickly, then away. “You can stay here. It’s not as safe without me, but it’s safer than where we’re going. Probably. You’ll wake up soon anyway.”

“No!” says Emil. “I have no idea what’s going on, but--don’t leave me alone? Please?”

Lalli looks at Reynir. Reynir looks at Lalli. Does Lalli expect him to make a decision here? It may be Reynir’s journey, but he hardly has any more idea than Emil. Eventually Lalli shrugs. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” says Reynir. It’s scary, but--Odinn answered his prayers and sent a messenger to guide him. He has friends coming with him. They _want_ to come. Reynir can feel his mouth stretching into a smile as the raven takes off into the air again. “Okay! Let’s go!”

#

When they reach the water at the edge of Lalli’s space, it’s not the ocean. It’s a turbulent river, with the water boiling over jagged rocks. Reynir doesn’t want to try walking on it--even if he doesn’t sink, he’ll surely get swept away, and those rocks look really sharp.

“This is weird,” says Lalli.

“Oh,” says Reynir. “You’ve never been here before?”

Lalli shoots him a brief disdainful look that isn’t very reassuring. At least they’re not going to have to try walking over the water--there’s a bridge, a graceful wooden arch that stretches to the opposite bank, almost out of sight. Reynir would be happier if it had railings. But the raven flies out above the bridge, and Reynir follows it, Lalli next to him and Emil a few steps behind.

The bridge is slick with the spray of the rapids. Reynir steps carefully, keeping a nervous eye on the river. It almost looks as though something is breaking the surface. Something is breaking the surface, a massive snout bigger than all three of them put together, and it’s still rising, opening a mouth full of rows and rows of sharp, curved, gleaming teeth. Forgetting everything but panic, Reynir runs, almost barreling into Lalli, and Lalli--

Lalli is smiling.

The sight is so new and unexpected that it drives the leviathan clean out of Reynir’s mind--and as soon as it does, the leviathan itself vanishes too. For a second, all Reynir can see is the water and the bridge, and Lalli, a look of elation across his face, about to leap off of it.

“No!” Reynir grabs Lalli by the arm and hauls him backwards, and Lalli turns on him with a snarl. “It’s not real, it’s just a trick to make you fall off the bridge!”

Lalli is still trying to pull free of Reynir’s grip, and when Reynir looks down at his own arms he almost lets go. The skin is bright red, rising up in sores and welts, melting--he’s dying, he’s killing Lalli--

But that’s not right, because Lalli is immune, isn’t he? And anyway, none of it is real. He has to remember that. He gives another desperate pull and crashes into Emil behind him, and all three of them end up in a heap on the bank of the river. All that, and they only made it a few steps onto the bridge. How are they ever going to get across?

Lalli is the first to pick himself up, standing straight and stiff. He stalks a short distance off and informs Reynir, without looking at him, “I don’t like your gods.”

“Sorry,” says Reynir. He wonders what Lalli saw on the bridge, but he doesn’t suppose Lalli will tell him if he asks.

“Um?” says Emil. “I--if I understand this right, there’s a bridge, and you guys can’t cross it because you’re seeing things that aren’t there?”

“Yeah,” says Reynir.

“Well, I’m not. Maybe I could lead?”

“But you can’t see anything,” says Reynir.

“I can see you guys, if you’re close enough. And if I concentrate, I can see a little bit around my feet. That should be good enough to cross a bridge.” Emil looks up, his smile bright and stiff, brittle. “It’s just like being in the basement of a library and your lantern goes out, right?”

Lalli hisses between his teeth. “Try not to scream so loud this time.”

“I never scream,” says Emil with affronted dignity.

Reynir wants to ask them to please not argue, but Emil’s courage seems steadier now, and Lalli looks less ready to bite. So … that’s good. Emil squares his shoulders and steps out onto the bridge, and Reynir and Lalli follow him.

Darkness closes in. The darkness has a shape, a wavering, uncertain shape, as if it can’t quite remember what shape it’s supposed to be. Dozens of shapes, hundreds, maybe, with hands and eyes and mouths screaming fury and hunger. Reynir doesn’t know what they want, and they won’t stop, and no one is coming to help, and he has to get away--but just ahead of him, Emil is slowly, shakily putting one foot in front of the other. Lalli has his eyes firmly fixed on Emil’s back, stepping where he steps. If they can do it, so can Reynir. He has to.

He hears a shout, and he turns towards it, sees a troll, massive and misshapen, bearing down on him. Then Sigrun is there, throwing herself between Reynir and the troll like she did before, only this time, it’s going to kill her. Reynir _knows._ And it isn’t right, because she’s the captain and they all depend on her, and Reynir is useless anyway, so he can’t let it happen. He starts forward, and bumps into Emil, who stumbles, but doesn’t look up or stop walking.

And now there are green hills all around, and--it’s Reynir’s house, and his parents are standing at the door, waiting for him.

“I’m sorry,” says his father. “We just wanted to protect you, but it wasn’t right, lying to you like that.”

“We understand why you left. It’s okay, we’re not mad, just--” His mother reaches out to him. “Reynir, come home, please?”

How can Reynir refuse that appeal? But beneath the voices and words that he’s been longing for, he can hear Emil’s steady footsteps, soft against the damp wood. That’s what’s real, not anything else.

He keeps walking, leaving his parents behind, listening to his mother’s sobs--illusions. But also true, in another way. Every step along the bridge is a step away from the life he’s always lived, the person he’s always been. And there’s nowhere to go but forward, or else into the churning river below.

Finally, finally, they reach the other bank. “Stone,” says Emil in a quiet, choked voice. “Not wood. Are we across?”

“Um--yeah,” says Reynir.

“Ah.” Emil starts trembling, as if he’s been holding himself back from it the entire way across the bridge. Lalli touches his arm, and Emil leans on him for just a second. “We’re not--we’re not going to have to that again on the way back, are we?”

Reynir shakes his head. He has no idea. “Thank you,” he says instead. “That was--thanks.”

Overhead, he can see the raven again. The place they’ve reached looks a bit like Reynir’s own dream-place, only without the sheep. And it’s always springtime in Reynir’s dream-place, but here the turf is touched with frost, and the rocks rimed with ice. They clamber up a hillside, following the raven until it disappears into--a doorway in the side of the hill? No, it’s a house, a small one made of turf, only distinguishable from the hillside by the carved wooden door, and the wooden chimney issuing a faint stream of smoke.

Inside, it’s warm and dark, lit up only by the glow of fire in the hearth in the center of what seems to be the only room. There are benches along the walls, heaped up with furs, and at first Reynir takes the figure sitting against the back wall to be a particularly large and scruffy pile of furs, until it starts talking. Then Reynir yelps, leaps backwards, and almost trips over his own feet.

From somewhere inside the furs, the hair, the beard, and the wrinkles, the figure smiles, showing a mouth full of large, yellow teeth. It’s not a reassuring smile, but it’s not exactly a threatening smile either. “Come and be welcome, far-traveled guests, and sit yourselves down by my hearth,” he says. “Grutte Gráskeggi is what they call me. Whom have I the honor to host?”

“Oh! Um, hi. I’m Reynir, Reynir Árnason, and these are my friends, Lalli and Emil?” Reynir doesn’t know how you’re supposed to introduce yourself to a god--Grutte Gráskeggi must be a god, right? Not a god he’s ever heard of, but he wasn’t lying when he told Onni he didn’t really know his gods. Anyway, however you’re supposed to do it, Reynir’s pretty sure he’s gotten it wrong. He doesn’t even know Lalli and Emil’s patronymics, what kind of a friend is he? “This is a nice place you’ve got here. Um, cozy. Thanks for letting us come in!”

“I would welcome any who followed the raven and found the path over the river of lies. I know you, young shepherd. You have come for the song-mead.” Grutte Gráskeggi reaches into the folds of his clothing--or maybe a jumble of stuff on the bench beside him, it’s hard to see--and takes out a small metal bowl that catches the gleam of the firelight dully. He rests the bowl on his knees. It’s full of some dark liquid, steaming even in the heat of the house. The fumes make Reynir’s eyes water. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he prayed for guidance.

“I guess?” he says. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. About anything. I didn’t even find my way across the bridge, that was Emil.”

“However they found it, your two feet have walked it,” says Grutte Gráskeggi with a low chuckle. “A friend is a sturdy shield. Taking help when it’s given still counts as success--though the song-mead you must drink yourself.”

“Ah … okay.” Reynir is uncomfortably reminded of his older siblings’ warnings about accepting drinks from strangers. But this is what he came for, isn’t it? “So, um, can I have it? Please?”

Grutte Gráskeggi shakes his head. “The warmth of my hearth, and my sheltering roof--these I grant all my guests freely. Not so the song-mead, for it is my treasure: no sly thief may steal it, nor sweet singer beg it, no kind heart my claim it, nor warrior win it. So answer this riddle: who shall have the song-mead, that grants men clear vision, and wisdom unlocks?”

“Um?” says Reynir. He’s pretty sure he isn’t any of those things, so if they can’t have the song-mead, what hope does he have? “I don’t--I mean--I don’t know. What you’re saying.”

Then Lalli speaks up, and Reynir nearly jumps and yells again; Lalli has been sitting so quietly Reynir almost forgot he was there. “I think you should appreciate everything Reynir’s done already. He followed your bird, and he crossed your bridge, and he found your house, and he’s done his best to be polite even if he doesn't know how. How is he supposed to know if no one ever explained it to him? He’s been asking for help--do you think a bunch of talking that he can't understand is going to help? If you want him to do your work in the world, give him the Song-Mead already. Although if you've got a drink that gives you clear sight and unlocks the gates of hidden wisdom, I don't see why you can't make it taste good, too. It smells like moose piss. _I_ wouldn't drink it.”

A tiny part of Reynir is really touched that Lalli is defending him. An equally small part has to admit the justice of what Lalli is saying--well, maybe not the part about moose piss, Reynir wouldn't know, but he can believe it smells like that.

Most of Reynir is utterly terrified. He should explain that Lalli doesn't really mean what he’s saying, it’s probably a translation error from the Finnish, it’s just what he’s like, so please don't smite him or any of the rest of us please. But it’s like fear has its hand around Reynir’s throat--he’s heard the expression before, but he’s never really understood it until now, when he can feel it choking the words out of him.

And then Grutte Gráskeggi laughs. “As well that you wouldn’t; it’s not meant for heathens,” he says, and adds, with a nod towards Emil, “Nor for those who walk proudly, eyes shut to the truth.” Then he turns back to Reynir. “Still, your friends are well-chosen, if you heed their directions. Will you answer my riddle, or forever keep dumb?”

Forever keeping dumb is looking tempting. But has Lalli really given Reynir the answer? Getting it wrong can’t be worse than saying nothing, can it? “I--I know I’m stupid, and ignorant, and I’ve managed to get myself stranded in the Silent World where there’s no one to teach me properly,” says Reynir. “So if you want me to--to do your work in the world … I guess you’re going to have to give me the song-mead.”

Definitely too demanding, but Reynir swallows the urge to apologize or take it back, and Grutte Gráskeggi’s face creases into a grin. “Well-spoken, young shepherd. You’re not without boldness. And who else needs wisdom, moreso than a fool?”

“Thank you,” says Reyinr, accepting the bowl from Grutte Gráskeggi’s hands. There’s really no point in taking offense now. The bowl is warm, the liquid in it thick, and it smells even worse up close. He hesitates before bringing it to his lips, listening to Lalli and Emil talking on the bench behind him.

“I--” says Emil. “I didn’t know you minded that you couldn’t understand what we were saying.”

“Of course I mind,” Lalli huffs.

“Sorry. I guess that was dumb of me,” says Emil. “But--do you not want me to talk to you? I mean, when we can’t understand each other--”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Lalli irritably. “You won’t remember this when you wake up anyway.” Then his voice softens, just a little. “But I will.”

Reynir drinks. Even though the song-mead tastes fouler than it smells and his head starts swimming halfway through, he makes sure to swallow every drop--he may not know much about the gods, but he’s heard that kind of story. A little bit left in the cup, a small, barely-noticed spill--that would be bad, wouldn’t it? The house is dissolving around him, and he sees things--shapes, symbols, colors, things he has no words for. If this is wisdom, it’s--

#

Emil opens his eyes and rubs his head, which hurts. So does his right shoulder, and his left knee. He’s not in his bunk. He’s out in a field, a little distance from the tank, and there are mud and grass stains on his uniform, and--right, there was that bird--did he get knocked out? How embarrassing.

Well, at least there was no one around to see it but Reynir, and he seems to be in a similar state, a heap of arms and legs about a meter away, whimpering softly.

Emil tries to make some sort of order of his hair, and to remember the weird dream he was having, without much success at either endeavor. There’s stuff in his hair--gross--and the details of the dream are gone past recalling. He thinks maybe Lalli apologized to him? And he could talk to Lalli.

That wasn’t the weird part, though. Emil can usually talk to Lalli when he dreams about him. Also, he’s back home in Östersund, and his parents are still together, and nobody’s in prison. That’s how dreams are. It doesn’t mean anything.

Still, Emil can’t shake the feeling that somehow, he did something right.

Reynir rolls over, sits up, and goes “Nuuuuuu …” Then he sees Emil, and he obviously thinks Emil’s done something right, too. Before he knows what’s happening, Emil finds himself wrapped in an awkward sitting hug, his face full of red hair and his ears full of loud, excited, and incomprehensible Icelandic.

Or not entirely incomprehensible. A word that sounds a bit like _thaka_ keeps coming up, and that’s close enough to Swedish that Emil can make a guess as to what it means.

“Uh, no trouble,” he says when Reynir finally lets go. “Next time, though, run. The First Rule doesn’t count when something’s actually attacking you, and it doesn’t go for birds at all. Don’t they teach you anything in Iceland?”

Reynir smiles and nods, and of course he doesn’t understand anything Emil’s just said. Maybe Emil should ask Tuuri to have a word with him when she gets back. Or maybe not. Reynir’s not a complete idiot. He’s probably worked out what he did wrong, so there’s no point in embarrassing him.

A flicker of movement in the doorway of the tank catches Emil’s eye. Lalli is up, blinking blearily in the sunlight. Couldn’t he sleep? Emil smiles, and then he remembers that Lalli’s still mad at him. Emil’s weird dream didn’t change that.

Reynir usually seems a little scared of Lalli. But now he looks as happy to see him as he was to see Emil earlier. He gets to his feet and rushes over and--oh no, he really has no sense--is he going to try to hug Lalli? Emil should have let that bird savage his face. It would’ve been kinder than what’s about to happen.

But Lalli just twists his shoulders to evade the hug and keeps walking, reaching up to pat Reynir’s head in passing.

That’s--

That’s _not fair._

Since when does Lalli tolerate Reynir? When he can barely stand to be in the same section of the tank as Emil, and Emil is the one who--

Who Lalli is sitting down next to and starting to pick bits of grass and leaf mould out of his hair.

Oh.

At first Emil sits perfectly still, as if breathing too loudly might scare Lalli away. But as the minutes go by and Lalli keeps working patiently, showing no signs of running off or getting suddenly mad about something again, Emil relaxes. There’s a lot of stuff to pick out, apparently. Emil has never been so glad to have filthy hair in his life.

Eventually, Lalli moves on to combing his fingers through Emil’s hair. Emil can’t help wincing and yelping at every tangle. Lalli doesn’t seem to mind, and Emil doesn’t either, really. When his hair has finally been fluffed to golden perfection--as close as it’s going to get without a real comb and a wash, anyway--Lalli keeps sitting next to him, their shoulders not quite touching. It’s nice. It’s so nice that Emil forgets he’s supposed to be keeping an eye on Reynir, which is when Reynir comes out of the tank and sets down a crate, and Emil sees that he’s holding a small and very sharp knife that probably belongs to Mikkel.

“What now?” says Emil, starting to get up to stop Reynir from doing whatever crazy thing he’s about to do next. Lalli tugs firmly on his arm to make him sit back down. “But--” says Emil. Another tug, more insistent. Whatever Reynir’s doing, Lalli clearly thinks it’s something Emil shouldn’t be interfering with. And, well, maybe Emil should trust him.

Then Reynir takes the knife, and, with a pained hiss, draws it across the heel of his left hand. Emil feels sick. “Sigrun’s going to kill me,” he says.

But Reynir just climbs up onto the crate, and, dipping the fingers of his right hand into the blood pooling in his left, paints a symbol above the door of the tank. A long vertical stripe, with straight and curved lines branching off of it. Eventually he seems to decide that it’s finished, because he comes back down and cleans and wraps up his cut with more supplies he must’ve stolen from Mikkel. Then he stand back and looks at his work, ridiculously pleased with himself.

The Icelander really is certifiably insane. But at least the tank’s still here, and nothing is on fire and no one’s been eaten by trolls. If nothing else goes wrong by the time she gets back, maybe Sigrun will only maim him a little.

Emil looks down at his stained uniform and sighs. Laundry, wasn’t that what Reynir was going to do before all this started? Laundry sounds like a great idea.

#

The symbol Reynir drew above the door gives Lalli a weird feeling. Weird but good: it’s like the walls of Keuruu, or the borders of Lalli’s area in the dream world. Like their tank is a safe place now.

Bad things can happen even in places that feel safe. Lalli knows this. But it’s nice that Reynir’s gods gave him something in exchange for all his trouble, and Lalli’s and Emil’s, anyway.

Onni is going to be mad if he ever finds out that Lalli yelled at a god. Like Onni thinks he’s the only one who gets to yell. But that’s okay, because how is Onni ever going to know? That’s what happens when you never want to go anywhere or do anything. You never find things out.

That sounds like something Tuuri would say. It’s weird that Lalli is starting to understand Tuuri’s point of view, a little.

Emil and Reynir are doing the laundry. Earlier, they had a big tub full of hot, soapy water, and they were getting it everywhere, so Lalli had to go hide under the tank for a bit. And while he was there, he tried to go back to sleep. But that didn’t work, and now they’re done with the soapy water and have moved on to setting up drying lines, which is less alarming, so if Lalli can’t sleep he might as well help.

Emil doesn’t see Lalli until he’s standing right next to him and deliberately making noise. Lalli gestures for the basket of clothespins Emil’s holding, and Emil gives it to him, grinning, nothing but bright. Reynir peeks out from behind one of Mikkel’s enormous jackets, and he’s smiling, too.

Reynir’s not so bad. Still very rude, but he’s learning.

Tuuri, Sigrun, and Mikkel are on their way back. They’re far enough away that the others probably can’t hear them yet, but even though Sigrun can be quiet when she wants to be, she usually doesn’t. And Tuuri and Mikkel are hopeless.

Maybe Lalli should offer to help Tuuri with her decontamination, since she hasn’t done it before, and to show her that he’s not mad at her anymore. Even if she’s not always great at understanding things, she should be able to understand that, at least.

One of these days Lalli is going to get a decent sleep and nobody is going to bother him. But this is okay too.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just assume everything was sterile and Reynir's cut isn't going to get infected with anything, okay? Okay.
> 
> The title is from [Olive Bray's translation of Hávamál, because I'm unbearably pretentious like that.](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/havamal.html)
> 
> Also, the name Grutte Gráskeggi comes from the medieval Norwegian poem Draumkvedet which was one of the inspirations for this story, and a really beautiful musical version of which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aVUup3sMys4). Grutte Gráskeggi is something of a devil figure to the Christian narrator of the poem, but he's also believed to be an analog of Odin.


End file.
